


Car Jack

by Smokemycancer



Series: Increasingly Poor Decisions of Carl Gallagher [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:56:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smokemycancer/pseuds/Smokemycancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And you took three corpses across state lines why, exactly?” Mickey continued to grill Carl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Car Jack

 

****

Smoke wafted up from the hood of the car. Pooled in through the vents. The thickness of it was suffocating. High pitched and constant, the car alarm sounded off in Carl’s bleeding ears. Then died and all was quiet. And then the silence ended. Beside of him, Hank Jr. fooled loudly with the door handle. Carl, head back against his seat, hand over his busted mouth, shut his eyes tightly and listened to Hank cursing.

“We’re wedged between two trees,” Carl coughed out. His gut hurt from the seat belt digging into it. His head hurt from bashing against the steering wheel.

Hank, who was barely injured by some miracle, wailed and started kicking at the windshield like a wild beast.

Cracking an eye and leveling out his own breathing, Carl tried to focus on the situation at hand. Hank was acting out of panic. That wasn’t helping. Carl needed to think fast and get them out of this death trap. Not to mention getting the out of this horrendous, criminal situation. The couple from whom the pair had stolen this hybrid car had probably phoned the police long ago. Soon, sirens and blue lights would flood the curb just up from this embankment. And the police would find two car thieves and three bodies in the trunk.

When the car hit, something in the wiring went off, and the lights were not coming on. It was pitch black. Coughing more, Carl sat up and undid his seatbelt. Hank still wailing on the strong windshield with no success. Carl dug through his pockets and found his knife. He held it up, breathing heavily through his mouth. Pretty sure that he may have punctured a lung during the crash; he was wheezy and in immense pain.

“Fuck!” Hank bellowed, stilling his exhausted legs. “We’re going to jail for real this time,” he said. Holding his face, he screamed in frustration between his teeth. “I told you,” he growled, “to watch for black ice!”

Ignoring the other teen, Carl gripped his knife upside down, blade tucked away. The thing was a gift from Ian. Made of aircraft titanium. Carl swallowed and flipped it one time in his hand before sucking in a deep breath and shifting about, onto his knees in the seat. The position was painful. Especially given that the car was sitting upright on the back end. Gravity fought against Carl.

Hank scowled over at him, observing.

“Just shut the hell up,” Carl said, too tired and defeated to argue. He held his side with one hand and started hitting his windshield with the butt of his blade. The glass began cracking, but only barely. Carl quickly discovered that he was too weak to break it. He sat back on his haunches in the seat and looked over at Hank. He reached out the blade, knuckles bleeding from his efforts. “You bust it out,” Carl said as Hank took the blade.

And as Hank went to do this, Carl dove into his pocket again. Hank’s eyes darted to him as he worked the windshield. He asked Carl who he was calling, eyes wide and full of hate and panic.

“Mickey,” Carl sighed.

Hank snorted. Breath puffing out in the space around him. The temperature was dropping rapidly now that the heat cut off. “What’s that faggat going to do?” Hank spat. Hank, in his getting out of a two year sentence, was turning into a regular biggot. Carl was getting sick of it already. His best friend hadn’t been like this before getting arrested. Or maybe Hank had always been like this and Carl hadn’t thought on it. Because Carl’s life and family was full of acceptance for all walks of life. It hadn’t occurred to him until very recently that not everyone felt the same way.

“Kick your ass if he hears you call him that,” Carl huffed, annoyed. He put the phone to his ear and waited, rolling his eyes.

The voice that answered was not who Carl had been expecting. He frowned into the phone, suddenly regretful.

“Hello?” Ian dragged out, sleep heavy in his tone. He yawned.

“Ian, it’s Carl,” Carl breathed. He stared out the windshield and into the forest around him.

At this, Ian perked up. “Dude,” Ian said, relief evident, “where the fuck are you? Fiona’s freaking out.”

Carl umed about, searching for the right way to inform his brother of the situation. This wasn’t good. None of it. Ian would not take this well. Pain throbbing through him, Carl figured he might as well just get this over with so someone could come and help him. If help were at all possible. Being blessed out by his mothering brother be damned. “Indiana,” Carl blurted, wincing at the pain in his stomach and head.

Hank rolled his eyes and chuckled. Spouting off something about life in prison.

“Hush,” Carl spat, then went back to the phone.

In the background on Ian’s end, everything grew so quiet that Carl could hear Ian’s mattress squeak. Heard a groggy voice rumbling.

“What did he just say?” Mickey asked, sounding muted and far away.

“He’s in fucking Indiana,” Ian told, then turned his attention back to Carl. “What's going on?” he asked, angry. “What did you do now, Carl?”

Carl swallowed. “I might have killed someone,” he said, sheepish. Might have was a lie. Carl had just shot up a billiard room of three men only two hours ago. The bodies were in this trunk.

“He what?” Mickey boomed. “Fucker!” Carl heard something knock over.

Ian must have put the phone against him, because for a minute, all Carl could hear was muffled voices arguing. Finally the phone rattled and Ian breathed into it. “Mickey wants to know where Molly’s at,” Ian finally demanded. His voice was flat and dropped. The calm before the inevitable storm.

Naturally Mickey would have known Molly was involved. Carl and Molly often paired up to do more than stupid shit. Rubbing his head and letting go of his aching stomach, Carl, said, “I dropped her off at home. I didn’t want to bring her in on this anymore than--”

“Give me that!” Mickey hissed, voice closer to the receiver now.

Carl blinked at the obvious struggle going on on the other end. Finally Mickey coughed. He must have walked away from Ian because his footsteps were fast and heavy, loud enough for even Carl to hear.

“You stupid little shit,” Mickey spat at Carl. Carl heard him light up a cigarette and blow out. “Who else knows?” he asked after a second drag. Slowly, he sounded as though he grew calm. All business now that he was likely out of Ian’s earshot.

And this. This was why Carl had called Mickey. Because Mickey knew how to handle a situation like this, being as the man had been raised in violent chaos much worse than any Gallagher could fathom. With the exception of Carl and Ian. Ian who had gone to some desert to get shot in the kneecap. And Carl, who most people thought was a sociopath, including himself.

“Little Hank,” Carl informed. He looked over at his would be business partner. Hank was still working on the windshield. He’d made more progress. Carl heard Mickey spit a curse. “Mickey,” Carl said, “Molly and I might have fucked up real bad. I’ve got three bodies with me right now. You remember that cop I told you about? The one with the birds?”

“I can’t believe you,” Mickey said, and spat on the ground, then took another drag. “Where’s your head at, bringing my kid brother in that?” he fumed. “He okay?” he asked after a second.

Because Mickey flat out refused to call Molly a her. Despite Molly’s upset over the matter.

“Molly’s fine,” Carl said. The sound of Hank’s final blow to the windshield startled Mickey.  Carl, smiling in relief and thanks to Hank, said, “But I’m not fine. I’m kind of fucked bad right now and need your help.” Mickey was quiet. Carl began to panic. “Mickey? Are you still there?” Carl blurted as Hank began climbing out of the car.

“Yeah, I’m still fucking here,” Mickey said, aggravated and distraught. “You’re panicky brother,” Mickey suddenly chuckled, amused, “is tearing my house apart right now. Thanks, kid.” As he told Carl this, sounds of wreckage vibrated in Carl’s ear.

“What’s he doing?” Carl asked, furrowing his brow. Worried. Ian’s actions and resoning were often hard to peg. Carl’s eyes searched the darkness outside of the car and found Hank, collecting himself from the forest floor. Hank dusted himself off and walked around to the back of the vehicle. Which was sitting on its ass, closing off the trunk completely.

“I don’t know,” Mickey sighed. He was tired. His voice was drained. Mentally, Mickey Milkovich sound have been locked into a loony bin; any other person who had faced what this guy had would be there. But not Mickey. He took this kind of thing in stride. Still, Carl could tell by Mickey’s voice alone that the stress was tearing Mickey down slowly. One day, Mickey’s bones would crumble from the weight. Carl hoped he wouldn’t be around to see that. “Probably he’s looking for a gun,” Mickey suddenly announced. “To shoot me with because I’m such a terrible influence on you,” he added with another laugh.

Carl groaned and began moving around. Crawling out of the car proved difficult while on the phone. So he told Mickey to hold on as he cut himself up getting out, then rolled harshly off the hood. Having hurt himself worse, Carl lay on the ground, moaning and holding his sides and stomach, eyes tightly shut, teeth bared. The phone in his pocket managed to survive the fall without disconnecting. Carl knew this because he heard Mickey’s voice asking him what had just happened. Laughing at the absurdity of everything happening to him right now, Carl got back on the phone. He opened his eyes and looked up at Hank staring angrily and impatient down at him. Carl scowled, stopped his laughter and glared at Hank.

“Instead of waiting around for me to solve this,” Carl grouched in a whisper, “why don’t you get the fucking bodies out of the god damned car!”

Mickey hummed into the phone. “How many did you say?” he asked.

“Three,” Carl said.

“And you took three corpses across state lines why, exactly?” Mickey continued to grill Carl.

Carl’s blood boiled at Mickey’s line of questioning. “Because,” he said haughtily, “I needed to bury them where, when they’re found, I won’t be a suspect.”

“Carl,” Mickey laughed snidely, “that’s not how murder works. It don’t matter where you bury that shit. Evidence is evidence and motive is enough to convict.”

“Well it seemed like the thing to do,” Carl defended himself, “at the time,” embarrassed and unsure why.

And so ensued the conversation between them about saving Carl’s ass from a life sentence. Or maybe even death.

After much struggle, pain, and freezing bones, Carl and Hank stood over their work. Both were covered in dirt and cold sweat. Hank threw down his shovel and stared expectantly at Carl. Meanwhile, it was all Carl could do to keep himself propped up on his own shovel. He rested his forehead on his hands atop the hilt. Just breathed for a while. Turns out his lungs were probably fine.

“We need to go,” Hank muttered, breaking Carl’s resolve. “The cops will be flooding these woods soon,” he said, like he could see into the future.

“No they won’t,” Carl bit. “Mickey called in and reported the car as being hauled up at a motel in Springfield. The police won’t be up this way until someone sniffs out the wreck.” He blinked into darkness, through the woods and at the wrecked car. The embankment he’d slid down was steep. Hard to spot from the road. “Which won’t be for a while,” Carl added, hopeful.

Taken aback, Hank tore his eyes off of Carl and looked over the grave site. The burial was rather sloppy. But this deep into the woods, no one would notice. Not right off. Still Carl’s stomach felt uneasy, as he too looked at the graves, thinking about the amount of trouble this put him into. Not to mention that Carl was finally starting to let what he had done sink in. He’s killed three people. Technically only two, being as Molly shot one in the back of his head when the man had gone for Carl. Still. He’d killed. The thought scared Carl half to death himself. But he would never admit that. Not to Hank. Not to Molly. And certainly to Mickey. But maybe to Ian. Because Ian had killed someone too and felt terrible about it. Some kid in the country Ian had been shot at. The kill had been self defense, but Ian never shook the guilt. Carl knew he would be able to talk to his brother about this. Even though, really, the kills were a lot different. Carl’s was because of getting involved in things he ought not, criminal things. Ian’s was as a soldier.

Thinking this somehow made Carl feel even shittier about the ordeal. He wanted to throw up. Wanted to go home to Fiona, drink a cup of hot chocolate, and fix everything he had ever done wrong. But he couldn’t. Certainly not now.

“All right,” Hank bitched, “so what now? I’m cold.”

As if killing three people weren’t bad enough, now Carl was contemplating adding a fourth body to the hole. Hank was being nothing but a heartache. Carl had brought Hank along simply because Hank was Carl’s best friend. Was being the operative word. The last two years, the two had spent apart because of Hank’s robbing a local pawn shop. And Carl had thought things would have been the same between them. Hank was happy to help. Or had been. But now, after all of the shit that Carl had been forced to hear fall off the other boy’s tongue. . .now all Carl wanted to do was rid himself of his friend. And that hurt because he’d once loved Hank like a brother. But then, Carl was quick to write people off.

Carl wished he wasn’t thinking like this. He pursed his lips and turned his head to rest his cheek on his wrist. Looking at Little Hank, Carl told him what Mickey had instructed.

“Let me get this right,” Hank said when Carl was done, “you expect me to rely on your queer brother’s fake husband to save my ass? Didn’t that guy go to prison for four years because he killed his beard-wife and didn’t get away with murder?”

Carl bit his tongue. Now was not the time for a fight. But soon after this was over, Carl was going to make Hank eat his words. He counted to ten, then said, “The charges were dropped. And no, I expect you to rely on Mickey’s brother for help. He’s our best shot right now.”

“I thought Mickey didn’t talk to his family?” Hank asked, chewing his dirty nails and spitting them.

“He doesn’t,” Carl said, “but I guess he thinks now’s as good a time as any for family reunions.”

And with that, the two sat down and shared a cigarette.


End file.
